Rat
by Flagg1991
Summary: The Loud family is put in danger by the dark past of one of their acquaintances - no Loudcest, lemon, or romance.
1. Shot in the Dark

Phillip "Chunk" Grant sparked a cigarette, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door to his two bedroom apartment. He took a drag, snapped the light on, and froze: The place was ransacked. His TV was smashed, the couch was overturned, and his clothes were strewn across the floor.

Oh, shit.

He backed out and shut the door, his heart beginning to race. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a revolver and turned. Two guys in suits were coming up the stairs. One saw him and swatted the other's shoulder. "There he is!"

Chunk raised the gun and fired: The bullet smashed into the wall behind the assassins, and they both ducked. Chunk fired again, intentionally missing, and then threw himself down the hall, running as fast as his 270 pounds would allow. He tossed a frightened glance over his shoulder, and saw the goons gaining on him. At the end of the hall, he slammed through a door marked EXIT and launched himself down the stairwell, taking the steps two and three at a time. Above, the door hit against the wall as the thugs burst through, a loud echo filling the world.

"He went that way!" he heard one of them yell. At the bottom of the stairs, he came to another door marked EXIT and pushed the handle. It wouldn't budge. A rusted chain was threaded through, a padlock hanging down like a body from a noose. There had been a rash of break-ins over the past few months, and the super decided the best way to stop them was to lock the outer door, which was, Chunk was pretty sure, against the law.

Panicking, he rammed his shoulder against it: It jumped in its frame but didn't open. Behind him, the footsteps grew closer. Come on! Come on! He rammed his shoulder against the door again, and it gave a little. The goons were on the landing now. "Stop right there, you rat bastard!" one of them yelled. Chunk threw his weight against the door in one final attempt, and it exploded open, Chunk stumbling into the warm August night. He was halfway across the parking lot, a stitch in his side and his breath hot in his burning lungs, when the first bullet whizzed by his head. Ducking, he zig-zagged to make it harder for them to get a bead on him, bullets slicing through the air around him. He jumped over the curb and smashed through a wooden stockade fence separating the apartment building from a 7-11, splinters scratching his face and arm.

"Get the car!" one of the killers yelled.

Chunk glanced over his shoulder and saw them running toward a black Lincoln parked in a NO PARKING zone. _These guys are sloppy,_ he thought.

He skitted around the corner of the store and stopped before reaching the door. He had two choices: Try to outrun them, or go inside and hope they wouldn't strike in public. He was pretty sure they'd catch up to him if he tried to run: He was a big guy and he was already out of breath. Inside, he stood a fighting chance, since guys like these didn't operate as brazenly as they did fifty years ago.

Decided, he took a deep breath, returned the gun to his coat, tried to wipe the fear off his face, and went inside, the harsh white light stinging his eyes. A cashier was sitting behind the counter, his arms crossed and his attention on a small TV set. A black man in a florescent yellow shirt was scanning the freezer containing the beer. A woman was by the coffee machine, stirring her brew with a red straw. A gangly teenaged boy was standing at a game cabinet, beeps, boops, and music surrounding him.

Headlights washed across the front window, and Chunk looked over his shoulder. With a thundering heart, he saw the Lincoln.

Shit.

They were going to do it.

Gulping, Chunk put his hand on the grip of the gun. He hurried away from the window and pretended to look at the sodas, throwing frequent glances over his shoulder. The black man opened a door, took out a tallboy, and brought it to the counter, leaving Chunk alone in the back.

For a long time, nothing happened, then the bell over the door dinged, and one of the hitmen came in, his baleful eyes fixed on Chunk. Feeling a sudden mixture of rage and terror, much like a cornered animal must feel, Chunk pulled the gun out and laid it flat against his leg. Alright. If it's going to be that way.

 _Come here, you guinea bastard; I got something for you._

Instead of coming for him, the goon leaned against the counter and slowly, slowly looked away. "Let me get a pack of Marlboros," he said in a Brooklyn accent. "And, uh, you got any _rat_ poison?"

Chunk flushed with anger.

"No, sorry," the clerk said, slapping a pack of cigarettes onto the counter. "10.50."

The goon took out a bill and sat it down. "Keep the change," he said, grabbing his smokes and starting for the door. He paused and glared at Chunk. _Step outside,_ those dark, bellicose eyes said, _take a ride._

Chunk glared back.

After a tense moment, the guy left, the bell dinging again, and Chunk breathed a sigh of relief. They wouldn't go far, though; they'd probably wait for him in the parking lot.

Thirsty from his run, he grabbed a Coke and went down the middle aisle, past chip bags, packs of cookies, and assorted candy. Out the front window, he saw the Lincoln back up and swing right, the passenger side facing the store. The window rolled down, and the guy who'd come in popped out.

"Shit!" Chunk cried and dropped just as the window exploded. The clerk yelped in what may have been terror or pain. Bullets tore into the bags and boxes lining the shelves, knocking some of them down and onto Chunk's back. Someone screamed, and more glass shattered.

When the gunfire stopped, Chunk jumped up and, in a crouch, hurried toward the back of the store. He was pretty sure he'd seen a storeroom. The floor was littered with debris. The kid who'd been playing on the game cabinet was lying on his back, blood gushing from his mouth.

Chunk reached the storeroom door and threw it open just as the sound of glass crunching underfoot found his ears. "Where is he?" one of the guys roared.

In the storeroom, Chunk stood and looked around. A door marked EXIT was to his right, and he went to it, throwing it open and dashing into the night. Behind him, an alarm sounded, and he turned just in time to see the two assholes appear. Muzzles flashed, and bullets screamed through the air around him. What the hell were they using, .50 cals?

The far right corner of the store's back lot bordered a dense stand of forest. Chunk made for it, jumping over the curb and side-stepping a picnic table that seemed to come out of nowhere. Just past the treeline, the earth dipped down, and Chunk slid on pine needles, falling to his ass but popping back up again. At the bottom of the incline, he went right, following what looked like a dry creek-bed. If he knew Royal Woods the way he liked to think he did, this would bring him to Colman Street, and crossing Colman would deposit him in Miller Park, where a guy being chased by goons easilylose himself.

As he ran, he reached into his pocket, but didn't feel his cellphone. He checked the other. It wasn't there either. Damn it! He must have dropped it somewhere.

He reached Coleman and darted across. On the other side, he lost himself in the park.

And his attackers, too.

* * *

Luna Loud closed her laptop and smiled to herself, a rush of accomplishment buffeting her like a warm summer breeze. Just twelve short hours ago, she uploaded a video of her playing her guitar and singing to YouTube, and in less than one day ( _one day!_ ) it had been viewed by almost 100,000 people. 100,000 people! That was insane!

Did that count as viral? She didn't think so, but, shit, it felt good anyway. And that was just twelve hours!

Her head spun and she felt like she was about to tumble out of bed. Wow. She'd posted videos before that got a lot of views, but nothing like this, and _never_ so fast.

 _This is it, Luna,_ she thought to herself, _your big break..._

She got up and crossed the room, stopping when her foot kicked something small and square: It slid across the carpet and hit her dresser. Looked like a phone.

She went to it, picked it up, and looked at it. It was. Chunk's phone. He must have dropped it when he was moving her speakers earlier. She sat it on the dresser and went to the bathroom. She'd give it to him tomorrow.

Down the hall, Lincoln Loud was sitting on his bed with a good comic and nothing on but his undies, the attire God intended a boy of eleven to read in. With a contented sigh, he turned the page. His hero Ace Savvy was locked in a life and death battle with Dr. Claw and...

The door slammed open, startling Lincoln so badly that he jumped. His sister Luan came in, wearing her stupid Groucho Marx glasses. "Hey, Linc, wanna hear a joke?"

Lincoln sighed. In a civilized society, a closed door was an impediment. In the Loud house, it was an invitation. "How many times do we have to have the talk?"

Luan cocked her head. "The birds and the bees talk? Mom already..."

"No," Lincoln said, slapping his face, "the knock-before-you-come-into-my-room talk."

Luan blinked. "Sorry." She knocked on the open door.

Okay. Yeah. That's _totally_ how it's done. "What?" he asked sharply.

"Wanna hear a joke?"

"Not really, but something tells me I'm going to anyway."

"Okay," Luan said, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice, "pretend you're not related to me."

Somedays, Luan, I do. "Okay. I'm not related to you."

Luan grinned. "I know a good incest joke, but I like to keep it in the family." She laughed and slapped her knobby knee.

Lincoln grinned despite himself. "Okay, you got me with that one."

She pretended to pull out a notepad and a pen. "Note to self: Lincoln likes incest."

Lincoln's heart dropped. "No!" he said, throwing up his hands.

"The idea of making love to his sisters is amusing to him."

"God, no, it turns my stomach!"

"Make more crude jokes about our sisters' bodies."

Lincoln sighed. "Go away."

"You're a strange little boy, Lincoln Loud. I think you need therapy."

Whatever. He picked up his comic book and started reading again. When Luan got like this, there was no stopping her. Well, short of shoving a sock into her mouth and duct taping it into place.

"I'm leaving now," she said.

"Bye."

"Don't look at my butt as I walk away."

"I'll try not to."

"Or think about me as you..."

Lincoln looked up. "Can you please let me read my comic book? If anyone has some sick incest fetish, it's the girl who won't leave me alone."

"You're an asshole."

"I'm in my underwear, and here you are. I bet you get a sick thrill out of seeing me half naked. You probably wish I was _all_ the way naked, don't you?"

Luan sighed. "You need to learn proper comedic timing."

"You need to learn to take a hint."

"Fine," she said, and left, closing the door hard. Alone at last, Lincoln crossed his leg and delved back into the world of Ace Savvy. He loved his sisters, but Jesus H. Christ, they never left him alone. From the moment he woke up in the morning to the moment his head hit the pillow at night, they were jammed so far up his ass they wore his brain as a hat. The funny thing was: They didn't do that to each other, only him. They were _all_ probably into that incest crap: One day they'd form a mob and break down his door. "We done come for ya'll, Lincoln," they'd say, because people who do incest are usually from the south. He'd probably have to jump out his window to escape.

He was just about to turn the page when someone rapped on the door. He sighed and looked up. So soon? At least they were being polite about it. "What?"

The door opened and Luna came in, her face glowing. "Hey, bro, wanna hear something cool?"

He started to say something snarky, but she looked so happy that he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Yeah, what's up?"

"I posted a video to YouTube this morning and so far it has 100,000 likes!"

Whoa. That _was_ pretty cool. "Wow."

"I know, right? I think it's gonna go viral!"

"That's great," Lincoln said earnestly. "Just don't forget us little people when you blow up."

"I won't forget you, bro! You can be my tour manager!"

Lincoln smiled. "That sounds cool."

What would it be like to be a tour manager, he wondered.

Probably like being a brother, but being in charge too.

That _did_ sound cool!


	2. This Thing of Ours

Mario Laraza was a man of wealth and taste. Sitting in the study of his Staten Island estate on the evening of August 18, clad in silk pajamas and slippers, he looked more like a turn of the century gentleman than a mob boss. He was tall and thin with stern blue eyes and leathery skin, the hair on the sides of his head the color of steel and the bald spot on top smooth and polished. He was esconded in his favorite armchair, a book open in his lap and a fire crackling in the hearth. Yeah, it was summer, but he was cold, though at his age, he was always cold; He was seventy-three last Spring, and while he didn't look it, he sure as hell felt it. Somedays, he felt older.

Staring absently into the fire, Laraza let his mind wander as he often did these days, allowing it to roam back over the many people, places, and things that populated his past. He was getting nostalgic. He looked back on the eighties as the good old days, the way the old hats of the eighties looked back on the fifties. When he was young he laughed at them, living in the past, set in their ways, closed to new ways of doing business and making money. Now he understood them. See, the world has a way of moving on, whether you're ready for it to or not. When he took over the Laraza Family from his father in 1981, he never thought he'd live to see the day when the mob was nearly broken, and most of its business was conducted behind a glorified typewriter with a goddamn TV screen the width of a piece of paper, yet here he was, a relic of a bygone era living in the strange and alien world of 2017. Hardly anything made sense anymore. Things were so different.

But...but there was one thing that remained the same.

Revenge.

Laraza took a drink from his brandy and sighed. He checked the time on his Rolex (the light of the fire catching his sapphire pinky ring with a glint) and drummed his fingers on the pages of the open book. It was nearly 9. They should have phoned him an hour ago with three simple words: _We're coming home._

Why didn't they call when they were supposed to? Did something go wrong? Were they pinched? A thousand terrible thoughts ran through his mind, and he started to get angry, because he didn't like hitches in his plans. Hitches were bad. Hitches got you pinched, or worse, dead.

Those bastards better not have fucked this up. If they did, he swore to God he'd have them all whacked. Dump their bodies in the landfill in Queens. Let the fucking gulls have them.

The phone rang, and Mario Laraza jumped.

About fucking time.

He picked the handset up and pressed it to his ear. "Yeah?"

"It's Condor."

Condor was Anthony "Tony Terror" DeSimone, one of Laraza's top lieutenants. He was in charge of Operation d-Con. Laraza insisted on code names for this job; his phone was safe, and so was Tony's, but with the FBI constantly nipping at their heels, you couldn't be too careful, especially when murder was involved. Laraza liked birds, so there was that. It was called Operation d-Con because d-Con is what you use to kill rats.

"Yeah? Is it done?"

A pregnant pause filled the line, and Laraza had his answer. His lips tightened into a slash and his eyes set.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Jerry was...alerted."

Jerry was the codename for that rat bastard "Grant" because of the cartoon. "How was he alerted?"

"His hole was disturbed."

That meant some fucking body went into Grant's place, made a fucking mess, then left it for him to find.

"We lost him," Tony said.

Laraza drew a deep breath. "How in the hell do you lose a 280 pound man?"

"It was Sparrow and Blue jay."

Sparrow was Tommy DeNunzio, Tony's nephew, and Bluejay was Frankie Carlone. Both were young and hungry to make their mark in the underworld. They jumped at the chance to go after Grant, since a job this big would ensure them being made...inducted as full members of the Family.

Laraza pinched the bridge of his nose.

"There was also...an incident."

His eyes, hitherto closed, flew open. "What kind of incident?"

"Well, it was a – uh – hailstorm..."

"Cut the shit and tell me what fucking happened."

"They shot up a gas station full of people."

" _They what?"_

Tony didn't respond.

Laraza was starting to fume. He took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, then exhaled. "What is one of the most important rules about this thing of ours?"

"I know..." Tony started, but Laraza cut him off.

"What is it?"

"Don't bring heat."

"Yeah, and what's shooting up a gas station full of fucking people doing?"

"Bringing heat." He sounded like a scolded child.

"Do you remember what happened to Dutch Shultz?"

"Yeah."

Dutch Shultz was a wiseguy in the thirties who went to the bosses and asked permission to kill the New York City district attorney. They refused, since killing someone so high profile would bring swift and merciless retribution. Shultz tried anyway, and wound up getting whacked for his troubles.

"No more fuck ups," Laraza said, "or bad things are gonna happen."

"Yes, sir."

"And find this guy pronto. I want him taken out _tonight_."

"Yes, sir."

"Now go fucking do it, and keep those two retards in line, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

Laraza hung the phone up and sat back, an unhappy scowl playing across his wrinkled face. He called up a picture of his son as he'd last seen him, lying in a casket after being shanked by a nigger in prison, and hot hatred coursed through him. If it hadn't been for that asshole "Philip Grant", Bobby would still be alive.

He thought of what Tony had told him, those two dumb fucks shooting up a gas station full of people. He thought of all he would lose if the cops pinched them and they ratted him out. He'd spent so long fighting to stay on top that his first reaction to this turn of events was anger, but you know what? As long as Grant died, Mario Laraza didn't really care if he went down.

He took a drink of brandy and gazed into the fire. As long as he paid Grant back for Bobby, he would die happy...

* * *

Tony DeSimone, a tall man with a big nose, crinkled flesh, and graying hair with black at the temples, snapped the burner phone closed and threw it onto the dashboard. Behind the wheel, Jimmy Vario (street name Little because what else would you call a 6'2, 250 pound man?) lit a cigarette and exhaled a plume of blue smoke that hung like haze in the car, some of it drifting out the window into the still August night. "He threaten to whack us?" Jimmy asked casually.

"Kinda," Tony said.

Jimmy nodded. Mr. Laraza wasn't a bloodthirsty kinda guy. Never had been, even back when business was good and you could still get away with whacking guys left and right. Given the special circumstances surrounding the mission, however, Jimmy wasn't surprised the old man was talking about whacking them. This Grant asshole caused Bobby Laraza to go to prison, where some moolie ripped his guts out with a sharpened toothbrush over a craps game. This wasn't business, this was _personal_.

"You think we should take a walk?" Jimmy asked, nodding toward the house across the street. It was a big two story deal with a covered porch and dormers. Toys, sports equipment, and other junk dotted the front lawn.

Tony and Jimmy had been watching the house for over a week: It was the only place other than his apartment that Chunk spent any amount of time at. Their first day watching him, they trailed him here, staying two car lengths behind to avoid being seen.

Neither of them could figure out what he was up to, then a couple days in they saw him loading shit into the back of a van...looked like speakers and guitar cases. "Guess he works for 'em," Tony had said.

"Looks like it," Jimmy replied.

"What are they, some kinda fuckin family Brady Bunch band or something?"

"That's The Partridge Family," Jimmy pointed out.

"Nah, The Brady Bunch had a band too. I think."

"Who fucking knows? I never watched that shit. Buncha assholes dancing around in tights. Pretty fucking gay if you ask me."

Over the course of the week, they counted thirteen people coming and going from the house, not counting the Mexican boy, the Mexican girl, and the black boy who stopped by every now and then.

"Look at this shit," Tony nodded out the window on Saturday. Kids ran through the front yard, seven, eight, nine. All of them were girls except for the little Albino boy. "Place an orphanage or something?"

"I dunno, maybe."

Tony had a little notepad in his lap and a pen in his hand. He took down the description, age, and gender of every family member, just in case.

Presently, Tony licked his lips and thought about it. "If we go in there, we're gonna have to whack 'em all. I don't know if he's gonna like that."

"That asshole's on the move, though," Jimmy said, "this is the only place he has to go. Except the police, and I guarantee he's too fucking smart to go to the cops."

The sheriff in Royal Woods was a man named David Kenner. Kenner, like many other officials in the Detroit metro area, took his marching orders from the Chicago Syndicate, who had moved into Detroit in the 1960s after the dissolution of the Ruzzi Family. As a favor to Mr. Laraza, the Syndicate ordered Kenner to turn over Philip Grant if he showed up at the police station. Say what you want about Chunk, but he wasn't stupid. He most likely knew he was a dead man if he went to the cops. Where _else_ could he go?

"Yeah," Tony said, staring at the front of the house. Lights blazed in the front windows. He figured if they had to whack 'em all, Kenner would cover for them. Say it was some iterant darkie or something. Jimmy was right about Chunk not being stupid, and he was right that this is the only place he had to go. It was worth it if it meant nabbing that bastard, because if they went back empty-handed...

"Alright," Tony nodded, "let's go."

* * *

"You fuckin let him go!" Tommy DeNunzio raged, gesturing with his right hand, his left hand gripping the wheel. They were creeping along Coleman Street and scanning the brush on either side. Frankie Carlone shined a spotlight out the window, sweeping the night.

"Me? You're such a good fucking shot, why didn't you peg him?"

Tommy was a braggart. His dick was the biggest, his aim the best, his money the greenest. Frankie had been friends with him since elementary school, and he'd always been like that. If he had No. 2 pencil and you had a No. 2 pencil, his was better. "Look at this pencil! It's a thing of beauty. Yours is junk." It got _really_ fucking old sometimes.

"You gotta make your bones sometime, Frankie."

Make your bones. Kill someone. As far as Frankie knew, Tommy had never killed anyone either, but to hear him tell it, he killed a guy every morning for breakfast.

"Yeah, I fucked up," Frankie said just so Tommy would shut his trap. Something stirred in the tall grass along the roadside, and Frankie shined the light on it. Gopher. Or something. He didn't fucking know.

"Well, we gotta find him," Tommy said, glancing out his open window, "Uncle Tony's not happy."

"Tony's never happy," Frankie said.

"Yeah, well, he's _extra_ not happy."

"I told you shooting that place up wasn't a good idea." Even now they could hear sirens in the distance. Frankie figured it'd make the 11'o'clock news, be front page on the papers tomorrow. Tommy was a hot-head, though, and when he made up his mind about something, that's how it went, fuck you.

"Oh fucking well. You and I gotta be the ones to take him out. You know what that'll do for us? Mr. Laraza will probably suck our dicks right there in front of everyone."

Taking Grant out _would_ elevate them, but Frankie wasn't entirely sure it was worth breaking rules and pissing people off. Pissing people off is how you wind up getting an icepick in your ear.

Tommy's phone rang in his lap, and he glanced at it. "It's Uncle Tony." He picked it up, pushed a button, and raised it to his ear. "Yeah, what's up?"

Frankie continued sweeping the side of the road. This section of Colman was heavily wooded. He saw bags of trash, a busted TV, an overturned armchair, an engine block...everything _but_ Phil Grant.

"We're going in," Tony said simply. "You and Frankie keep doing what you're doing. If you see him, whack him."

"Alright," Tommy said, feeling a little betrayed. Not ten minutes ago Uncle Tony chewed him a new asshole for shooting up a gas station, now he was going into that house with all those people, and Tommy was damn sure none of them were going to make it out. How's _that_ for a fucking hypocrite?

"If you get him, call."

"Alright."

Tony hung up.

"What?" Frankie asked.

"Nothing," Tommy said. "They're just gonna go in."

Frankie's eyes widened. "All those kids?"

"Fuck 'em," Tommy said.

Frankie shook his head. He'd done a lot of things he wasn't proud of in his life, but whacking women and kids? That was _waaaay_ too much. Once upon a time, you left women and kids alone, and if you didn't, you'd wind up in a vacant lot somewhere with a bullet in your head. These days, no one cared. It was the end of the world (or the mob at least), and everyone kinda felt it, and all the old traditions were out the window.

It was enough to make you sick to your stomach, and right now, Frankie Carlone was suddenly sick to his.


	3. Home Invasion

_Whoa, holy shit!_

For a terrible moment, Chunk was airborne, his arms and legs straight out like he was Superman flying over the city of Gotham or where ever the fuck he lived, his fat feet in tangles and his heart in his throat. He crashed through a wall of underbrush, thorns tearing at his face, and hit the ground with a mighty thud, the air rushing from his lungs in a breathy _umph,_ his teeth rattling.

He laid there, his mouth and nostrils full of dirt, and wondered how he'd fallen so far. Once upon a time, he had it all: Money, respect, a good position, women out the ass...now he was munching Mother Nature's carpet and running for his life from goons with guns. He made shit money washing dishes in a diner and working as a roadie for local bands (he make almost no money from Luna Loud, he just did it because he liked her, she was a good kid) and he didn't even have a car.

I oughta let them blast me.

He imagined letting those sons of bitches take him out, and his stomach turned. Fuck that. He wasn't a bitch and he sure as shit wasn't going out like one.

That's what motivated him to push himself up and brush himself off. If he was going to die, he was going to die with dignity, not crying into the dirt like a fucking schnook.

After dusting himself off, he checked his pockets to make sure he still had everything. Gun? Check. Smokes? Yup. Lighter? Yep. Might as well spark one while he had a minute. Was his phone _really_ not here? He didn't exactly have a chance to do a thorough search since he was too busy running for his life, maybe it was in a hidden pocket or something. He patted his pants, his checked his vest, he checked his pants again because where the fuck could it be? The little flight through the bush was the only time he'd fallen, so he couldn't have dropped it, unless it worked its way out of his pocket as he ran, which didn't seem very likely.

Hm. Where...?

Then it hit him. Luna's house. He remembered setting it on top of a speaker and then, later on, moving that speaker...his phone wasn't there. Son of a _bitch_. Did one of her sisters take it? It wouldn't surprise him, since he doubted they _all_ had cellphones; they'd need _two_ family plans for all of them. One probably saw it, thought 'Hey, I want a cellphone,' and _yoink,_ there it went. They were probably watching girly shows on it and eating up all his data as he fucking _spoke_.

Eh, maybe not. They seemed like decent kids. It probably fell off and landed under Luna's bed or something. Great. He'd have to go back for it, because there was a _very_ important contact number he needed. He should have jotted it down on a piece of paper and slipped it into his wallet, but it was 2017, so excuse the fuck outta him.

Damn. He _needed_ that number; it was the only one that would bring help. He couldn't go to the cops in Royal Woods, they were all so fucking corrupt they were practically full-fledged mob guys. Alright, so he'd have to walk fifteen blocks through town, dodging goombahs and cops. Not a fucking problem. Nah, don't worry about it.

A thought struck him: What if they were watching the Louds, waiting for him? They probably were; he bet there was a whole team of wiseguys in town, not just the two yahoos who chased him into the park. They probably had guys stationed at every fucking place he ever went, from the Loud house all the way down to the fucking porta-potty on 8th Street he used last Friday on his way home from work.

He'd have to risk it, though. This wasn't New York, or even Chicago: They didn't have eyes _everywhere_.

Resolved, he turned in the direction he thought the Loud house was and beat his way through thick growth, briers stabbing his bare forearms. Too bad I left my fucking machete at home.

After half a mile, the land sloped down to a bubbling creek roughly five feet across. Its flanks were rock-strewn and weed-choked. He picked his way to the edge and tried to step across, but the distance was too great, so, with an angry sigh, he splashed through, his shoes and socks getting soaked. Just what his night needed, wet feet. I have an idea, how about you rain, too?

It didn't. Thank God for small favors, huh?

Squelching in his wet socks and hating life, Chunk climbed an embankment, leaning forward to keep from falling backwards, and found himself looking through a screen of bushes at a road. Was it Coleman? He got so mixed up in the woods he didn't know. It could be Coleman or it could be Russel Avenue. Or...

He heard the swell of an approaching car, and ducked, his heart rocketing into his throat. Slowly, it came into view, a searchlight sweeping the opposite side of the road.

It was a black Lincoln.

Chunk watched with bated breath as it passed by. The guy behind the wheel glanced in his direction, and Chunk was sure he saw him, but he must not have, because he looked back at the road and kept going. When the red taillights dwindled in the night, he let his breath out. Moving quickly, he darted across the road and disappeared into the forest on the other side. He was panting, and it was only after he'd been resting a minute that he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Probably from the 7-11. He started moving in the direction he thought it was coming from. After maybe a quarter of a mile, he came to the stockade fence separating the 7-11 from his building. Red lights flashed in the dark.

He slipped through the hole he'd made, crossed the parking lot, and came out on West Street, sparing a glance over his shoulder every couple seconds, sure that he'd see the Lincoln zooming toward him any minute, the asshole in the passenger seat leaning out the window with a fucking AK-47 or something in his hands. Each time he looked, though, it was not there.

* * *

Lincoln Loud stretched, yawned, and walked into the hall, his eyes bleary and his head starting to ache. He'd been reading comics for two solid hours, and though it was still relatively early, he was ready to turn in...right after a quick pee.

He started for the bathroom, but Lola and Lana's door opened, and Lola came out in a huff. They must be arguing again.

She sensed his presence and turned, her eyes narrowing. "And _you_ always walking around in your underwear. It's so gross."

"Go back in your room and you won't have to see it," Lincoln said.

"I can't, Lana's stupid reptile lamps are making it hot as heck in there." A grin spread across her face, and Lincoln gulped. Uh-oh. "Oh, Lincy, do you think I can spend the night in your room? Your cool, cool, room?"

Lincoln sighed. "No. There's barely enough space for me. It's really a closet, after all."

"Oh," Lola said, waving a hand, "I don't take up much room."

"N-"

"Thanks, Lincoln," she said, heading toward his door. Damn it. Lincoln liked having his own space...or maybe he didn't, he couldn't say since his room was basically Grand Central Station. What _would_ it be like to have his own space, where he could be left totally and utterly alone? He pondered that as he walked to the bathroom, his head cocked and his hand on his chin. He wouldn't feel any anxiety, that was for sure. Now, in his closet room/sister magnet, he never really felt at ease, because at any moment, his door could crash open and one or more sisters would come in and completely shatter the illusion of peace and solitude he'd built. It was nerve-wracking as hell.

Then something else occurred to him, and his shoulders slumped. He wouldn't be able to masturbate tonight; no matter where she said she was going to sleep (the floor?) Lola would wind up in bed with him because it was more comfortable. Lincoln was willing to polish one off with his sister in the room, asleep, but not in the bed next to him. He sighed. Sometimes these girls _really_ got on his last nerve.

At the bathroom, he waited for someone to finish. The door opened after what seemed like forever, and Luna came out, starting when she saw him. "Hey, bro," she said, "you scared me."

"Sorry," he said.

In the bathroom he whipped out his thing and pissed. He flushed, washed his hands, and went into the hall just as dad called up the stairs. "Uh...kids? Can you come here?"

He sounded strange. Like he was sacred.

* * *

Tony DeSimone pulled his coat over the shoulder holster he wore and flicked a cigarette into the street. "C'mon," he said, nodding toward the house, and he and Jimmy Vario cross the blacktop. "You let me do the talking," Tony said as they started up the flagstone walk to the Louds' front porch. "You sound like you got a head fulla shit."

Jimmy chuckled.

At the door, Tony smoothed the sides of his hair with his hands and knocked with a flourish. From inside, he could hear the sounds of a TV, then approaching footfalls. The door opened, and a middle aged man with a receeding hairline appeared. Tony flashed a big smile. "Mr. Loud?"

"Yes?" the man asked hesitantly.

"I'm Detective Morris and this is Detective Stone. We're with the Royal Woods PD. Can we come inside?"

"What's this about?" Mr. Loud asked, coming out onto the porch and pulling his robe closed at the throat. Behind him, Tony saw Mrs. Loud on the couch, straining to look. Nosey bitch.

"We need to ask you a few questions about an acquaintance of yours, a Philip Grant."

Mr. Loud's brows furrowed. Something wasn't right here. He didn't know how he knew, but he did.

"He's goes by the street name Chunk," Jimmy said.

Mr. Loud's eyes widened. "Oh, okay. What about him?"

"Can we come inside?" Tony asked, gesturing. Lynn Loud Sr. caught sight of the amber ring on his pinky, and something about it struck him as very un-policemanlike. "This is a very serious matter, Mr. Loud. You could go to jail."

Mr. Loud blinked. "Can I see some identification, please?"

Tony detected a note of challenge in his voice. He and Jimmy looked at each other.

"Alright," he said, reaching into his coat and bringing out the gun, which he shoved into Mr. Loud's face; the man went pale and fell back a step. "Here's your fucking identification."

Mrs. Loud was coming over. When she saw the gun, her eyes widened. Jimmy pointed his at her. "Stay right there and don't make a sound, lady."

Mr. Loud went on gawking like a fucking retard, and hot anger rose in Tony's chest. He pushed him back. "Get in there."

He stumbled and almost fell, but Mrs. Loud caught him, and they both looked up with fearful eyes.

Jimmy closed the door behind him and locked it, never taking the gun off of Mrs. Loud. Tony looked around, taking stock of the living room. Typical suburban set up. Couch. TV. No coffee table, did people not use fucking coffee tables anymore? Framed pictures on the wall. Over the mantle, Tony spotted a big family portrait. "Sit down," he said, jabbing the gun at the Louds.

"Alright, alright," Mr. Loud said as he and his wife sat side-by-side on the couch. "Take whatever you want, just don't hurt my family."

"We're not here to rob you, mister," Tony said. With his free hand, he reached into his coat and brought out the notepad. "You got eleven kids, right?"

"Y-Yes," Mrs. Loud said.

"Okay. I'm gonna read off a description of each, and you tell me their names. If I miss one and you don't correct me, I'm going to blow their fucking head off, got it?"

They nodded.

"Alright. Female. Roughly twenty. Shoulder length blonde hair."

"That's-That's Lori," Mr. Loud said.

"Female, roughly eighteen, long blonde hair."

"Leni."

"Female, roughly sixteen, short brown hair."

"Luna."

While Tony read, Jimmy went over to the mantle and took down the portrait. He reached into his pocket, took out a pen, and drew a slash across the faces of the children already accounted for.

"The boy."

"Lincoln."

"Female...damn, you shoot pink or what, guy?...black hair."

"Lucy."

Jimmy sat on the couch next to the Louds and counted the children in the photo. There was a baby. Neither of them knew about the baby.

"Female, glasses."

"Lisa."

"What's the baby's name?" Jimmy asked.

"Lilly," Mrs. Loud said.

"How close was I on their ages?" Tony asked, slipping the notepad back into his coat.

"Close. 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 10, 8, 6, 6, 4."

Tony whistled. "You ever hear of Irish twins, Jimmy?"

"I mighta heard something like that."

"It's when the daddy can't stay off the mommy long enough to stop making kids every year and a half." He squatted down next to Mrs. Loud. "How in the _hell_ can one woman push out so many kids so fucking close together? Didn't you ever take a fucking break?"

She sniffed, tears coming to her eyes. "His dick really that good?"

"Stop it," Mr. Loud said, and Jimmy slapped him in the back of the head.

Tony turned to him, his eyes flashing. "You better be careful how you talk to me, mister. I can decide whether your night turns out hunky-dory or goes to shit. You see this gun?" He held it up. It was a Beretta 9mm. "There're fifteen rounds in this thing. One for each of you faggots and then some. Do you want me to have to kill your children?"

Mr. Loud shook his head. He was as white as milk, and Tony smiled. "Now call your kids down here."

Mr. Loud opened his mouth, but his voice broke.

"Come on!"

"Uh...kids?"

Tony nodded. "Good boy. You and your family might make it out of this thing alive after all."

Behind his back, he crossed his fingers.


	4. Anything We Can Use

Chunk made his way toward the Loud house under the cover of darkness, following alleys and side streets and crossing through darkened backyards. Whenever he came to a street, he would pause, look both ways (crouching down if he saw headlights), and then dart across. He saw the black Lincoln only once: It was creeping down Armando Avenue, the searchlight sweeping gutters and empty tenement stoops. He saw a cop car moving slowly on Tipton Street near the railroad tracks, and ducked behind a Dumpster. He didn't know if the cops would be actively looking for him, but he sure as hell didn't want to find out.

For a time, he walked along the railroad tracks, throwing cautious glances over his shoulders. Thick grass overgrew the ties; in places sections were missing entirely, taken by junkies and scrapped for drug money, probably. At Winchester Avenue, the tracks bent and ran through the stockyards. Cranes and decomposing factories and warehouses stood against the night sky. While passing a low building with broken windows and a crumbling roof, he heard something clatter to the ground, and jumped a foot: A cat streaked out from behind a pile of rubble, and he laughed at himself.

At Rosedale Street, he left the tracks and followed a slime slathered alleyway piled with bags of garbage that ran behind a row of businesses: A laundromat, a Chinese restaurant, and a head shop where he occasionally bought cigarettes. The latter was one of those places that had a big glass display case full of pipes and bongs "for tobacco use only." Sure, mate, pip-pip, let me smoke my cigarettes out of a gravity bong. Franklin Avenue was three blocks south. Following Central Place would get him there quickest, but it was the main drag for the southwest side of Royal Woods: The chances of him meeting the goombahs in the Lincoln or a crooked fucking pig were too high. He would have to cut through Miller Park.

He waited in the shadows for a few cars to cross the intersection before running across and into the park. He got as far away from the street as he could, putting a stand of trees between himself and it, and navigated a long concrete walkway past playground equipment and a baseball diamond. Chunk knew the park well: Lynn Loud's baseball team practiced here, and sometimes Luna lent her Chunk's services. Not that Chunk minded. What was the difference between loading and unloading speakers and baseball bats? Actually, baseball bats were lighter, unless you had a fuck ton of them tied together. He stopped, sparked a cigarette, and drew a deep breath, the rush of nicotine calming nerves he didn't even know were frayed.

Not for the first time that night, it occurred to him that they might be watching the Loud house. He figured this was a serious operation and they'd been keeping track of him. If so, they knew he went there a lot. He should forget his phone; he didn't want to bring the Louds any heat, and if one of those prickholes saw him sniffing around, there would be _plenty_ of heat.

What kept him going was the vague feeling in the pit of his stomach that maybe he had _already_ brought them heat. The mob didn't usually mess with ordinary people unless they got in the way. That went double for women and kids. Then again, things were getting pretty desperate when he ran with them, and that was twelve years ago. He remembered one time a guy saw some stuff he wasn't supposed to see, and some boys went over to his place and killed him _and_ his old lady. And they didn't just fucking kill her, they killed him and then _waited_ for her to come home. See, they were afraid he told her what he knew and if she came home and found him dead, she'd go to the cops. Back in the old days, no one touched a woman. These guys hacked one up with kitchen knives and got fucking _made_ for it.

The Louds might be in danger.

He sighed to himself. Why'd he have to get involved with them in the first place? Why did he get involved with Luna? It's not like she paid him much. He already knew the answer though: He was lonely. He hadn't seen his family since 2005 and would probably never see them again. His nieces, his nephews, his own siblings, his mother...he didn't even have a fucking _picture_ of them. He was alone in a town he'd never heard of until the feds moved him in back in 2013, and he knew no one, didn't really _want_ to know anyone. Then, one night, while he was bouncing at The Fuze Box on Chandler Ave, Luna and her band played. After her set, she came up to the bar and got a soda. He was talking to the bartender, and when she heard his accent, she thought it was just the coolest thing ever. "Oh, you're British? Rockin'!"

She followed him around like a little puppy dog for the rest of the night, asking him about London, asking him about this British singer and that. She annoyed the piss out of him, but he found himself liking her despite that. She kind of reminded him of his own kid sister. She was big into rock and roll too, only back then grunge was the big thing.

Luna played the next weekend, and that's when she asked him if he wanted to make some extra cash helping her move shit around. Sure, kid, why not? It's either that or go sit alone in my apartment. He was expecting a little more than ten bucks for three hours of work, but when she asked him to come back the next day, he didn't say no. It really wasn't about the money: It was about doing something with his time...and being around a family. Yeah, he wasn't a part of it, but it was nice seeing it.

He should have told her to fuck off, but he didn't. He really should have known better. He _knew_ that some bullshit like this might happen: Doesn't it always when you get close to people?

* * *

Lincoln Loud sat between Luna and Luan on the couch, his hands on his knees and his heart racing. The two men stood over them, the one with the gray hair scanning their faces with a little smile. "My name's Detective Morris and I'm gonna ask you a few questions, okay?"

Lincoln glanced at his mother and father: Their faces were white and drawn, his mother's trembling hands clasping his father's arm. They looked afraid. Luan, wedged between him and mom, noticed it too, her brow furrowed. She looked from them to Detective Morris.

No one spoke, and Detective Morris looked around. "Alright. We need to know about Chunk. Big guy. Nose ring. Hangs out here a lot."

"What _about_ Chunk?" Luna asked.

"Well, you see," Detective Morris said in that Brooklyn accent of his, his hands spreading, "Chunk was involved in a shooting tonight."

Luna's heart clutched. "A shooting? Is he okay?"

"Oh, he's fine," Detective Morris said.

"He was the one doing the shooting," the other one, Detective Stone, said.

Luna blinked. Chunk? Shooting? "Who'd he shoot?"

"Buncha people in a 7-11," Detective Morris said. "Killed, like, five guys. It was gruesome."

"Yeah, he just started shooting," Detective Stone said, "dunno why. Guess he lost it."

"Chunk wouldn't do something like that," Luna said, shaking her head. "He's a cool guy."

"Luna..." mom said cautiously, but Detective Morris held up a hand. He knelt in front of Luna, his eyes an icy shade of blue.

"Your friend murdered five people tonight, and he's out there, right now, lookin' for more people to kill. We need to know if he has any..." he made a circular gesture with his right hand "...haunts, you know, places that he likes to hang out or go that we don't know about."

Luna's eyes narrowed. "He didn't do it. I _know_ him."

A shadow crossed Detective Morris's face. "I'm telling you he did. I got video tape proving it."

"No you don't."

"Luna!" dad said.

"Shut the fuck up!" Detective Morris roared, turning to her parents. He turned back to Luna and snatched a handful of her shirt. His breath was hot and rank against her face, and her heart started crashing.

"Hey!" Lori yelled.

"Get off of her!" Luan cried.

His lips a tight, angry slash, Detective Morris dragged her to her feet and flung her to the floor. She smashed into the carpet face first. Everyone was yelling and protesting.

"Shut the fuck up, alla ya!" Detective Morris's accent was getting thicker the angrier he got. He pulled the gun out and aimed it square at Lori's head. On the floor, Luna pushed herself up, her eyes widening when she saw the gun. "Keep quiet or I swear to God I'll blast ya in ya fuckin' faces! Jimmy, grab that bitch offa the floor before I kick her stupid face in!"

Jimmy came over, and Luna cringed. He grabbed her by the back of her shirt and yanked her up, dragging her over to the couch and shoving her into her spot. She was immediately beset by the worried hands of her brother and sisters.

"I'm gonna ask one more time. Does this rat bastard have any places he hides?" The gun was still pointed at Lori, who stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes. She was frozen, her chest tight. No one spoke, and he jammed the gun against her forehead. She screamed.

"Take it easy, Tony," Jimmy said, putting a hand on Tony's shoulder, "will ya?" He knelt down.

"Look, we need to find this guy. If you got anything we can use, no matter how little you might think it is, tell us, and we'll leave you alone. If you _don't_..." he shrugged.

In her mind's eye, Luna saw Chunk's phone sitting on her dresser.

"Please," Mr. Loud said, "we don't know anything about the guy. He comes over and helps Luna move her equipment. That's it."

Tony pressed the gun against Leni's head now. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth like a girl getting ready to be stuck with a needle. He cocked it, and Luna's heart rocketed into her throat.

"I have his phone," she blurted. "It's upstairs on my dresser. He left it. Maybe-Maybe there's something in there you can use. Just...please don't hurt my family."

Tony looked at her. "Yeah? His phone?"

She nodded. "My dresser."

Tony glanced at Jimmy. "Take her to get it. If she tries anything, snap her neck."

Jimmy nodded. "Come on, kid."

Luna stood on shaky knees and went upstairs, feeling like a traitor. _Sorry, dude,_ she thought. She got the phone and handed it to Jimmy, who slipped it into his pocket. Back downstairs, Tony was talking into his own phone. "Just...come over here. We might have something."

He hung up and took Chunk's phone from Jimmy. He turned it over in his hands and smiled. "He'll be back for this. I can fucking _feel_ it..."

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came at the front door, and Jimmy answered it. Two men dressed in suits entered. One of them was grinning and looking around like he was at Disneyland; the other looked ashen and sick, his gaze downcast.

"Hey, Tommy," Tony said to the grinning one, "you meet the Loud family yet?"

"I met 'em last week when you had me and Frankie stakin' 'em out." He scanned the family. Luna didn't like the look in his eyes. "We gonna have some fun with 'em?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Fun?"

"Yeah," Tommy said, lifting and lowering his shoulders. "You know... _fun_."

"No, I don't fuckin' know," Tony said, his tone suddenly dark, "and I don't think I _wanna_ know."

Tommy shrugged. "I mean, it's no big deal..."

"Yeah, well it _is_ a big deal when my own fuckin' nephew thinks he's gonna come in here and be a common fuckin' pervert." Tony shook his head. "Go outside," he said, waving his arm. "Walk around the house and make sure he's not crouching in a fuckin' bush."

"Alright. If I see him, though, I'm whacking him and taking the credit."

"You do that."

Tommy went outside and Tony put his hands on his hips. "That fuckin' kid really gets me sometimes."


	5. The Rest of the Story

Chunk reached Franklin Avenue at a half hour to midnight. The sidewalks were lined with streetlamps that cast murky pools onto the pavement. A dog barked in the distance, and someone's baby cried.

He walked a half a block down the middle of the street, ready to duck behind a parked car or into an alley if he saw headlights, but he didn't. At the end of the block, he turned onto a gravel path that led to a narrow street flanked on either side by a wood stockade fence that ran along people's backyards. Gates were set here and there, and a few detached garages faced the street. Trashcans stood like sentinels, and a black sedan was parked in the grass between the fence and the road. Chunk crouched down and studied it for a long time, his heart knocking. Someone could be inside, waiting.

Moving low and quick, he went to the car and flattened himself against its side. He took a deep breath and popped up, peering inside.

It was empty.

He looked along the rest of the alley. He didn't see any other cars.

Allowing himself the luxury of walking upright, he hurried down the length, pausing at the last gate before the fence ended and the alley filtered out onto Torrance Street. He peered through the slats, and saw the back of the Loud house. The door to the kitchen was glass, and through it he could just see the suggestion of light, which meant there was activity (or at least someone awake) in the living room.

He swallowed hard, eased the gate open, and slipped it, closing and latching it behind him. He hurried over to the patio and ducked to one side of the door, waiting for someone to call out or for it to fly open, but neither of those things happened. His heart was crashing and he was out of breath. He took the gun from his waistband and leaned over just enough to see through the window. The kitchen was dark, but the living room was flooded with soft lamplight. He saw two blonde heads and a brown head on the couch, facing away. The rest of the couch was obscured. When he saw Jimmy Vario appear, looking down and speaking to one of the girl's, Chunk's heart seized. Once upon a time, he was good friends with Jimmy. As good as you can be with a guy who'll throw you under the bus in the twinkling of an eye...i.e., everyone in the mob. Jimmy knew Chunk's father way back and took it upon himself to show Chunk the ropes. When Chunk did what he did, Jimmy probably took it as a personal betrayal. Who _else_ did they send?

Chunk got his answer when he saw Tony Terror's ugly mug. Chunk was in Tony's crew back in the day, both of them working under Vinnie Gezippi, a captain who did business out of a club in Queens. Tony was a tough bastard. Chunk was _not_ happy to see him.

Great. They had the Louds hostage.

 _I'm going to die tonight,_ Chunk thought with absolute certainty.

What other choice did he have? He couldn't leave them.

Kicking himself in the ass, Chunk left the patio and went around the side of the house, stopping and backing up when he saw the glow of a cigarette cherry. He peeked around the corner, and the smell of marijuana wafted over him.

"Five girls in there fuckin' age and can't do shit with 'em," someone muttered. A dark form leaned against the house. "Just gonna waste him. Why can't I do one of them?"

Chunk's eyes narrowed, and his mind started formulating a rudimentary plan. Leaning back, he cupped his hands to his mouth and made a hooting noise.

"The fuck was that?"

He waited for the guy to come, the gun in his hand, the barrel pointed toward the sky and the bottom of the handle poised to strike. He shook with nerves. It had been a long time since he roughed someone up...not counting the occasional drunk when he was bouncing. This was no drunk, though, this was a wiseguy, and even if he was high on pot, he was ten times more dangerous than anyone you found on the street.

The sound of feet rustling through tall grass drew closer and closer. Chunk's grip tightened on the gun. When the guy appeared, he brought it down in a deadly arch. The guy barely had a chance to register what was happening before the handle crashed into his skull, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap. Chunk dropped to one knee and brought he gun up again just in case the prick needed an extra hit.

He didn't.

Blood gushed from his scalp, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Panting, Chunk lowered the gun and rolled the guy over, taking his wallet from his back pocket. He found the guy's drivers' license. The name on it was Tommy DeNunzio, which struck Chunk as oddly familiar. His age was listed as twenty-five, which would have made him thirteen when Chunk left the mob. No way in hell...

Then it struck him.

DeNunzio was Tony Terror's sister's last name. Billy DeNunzio was her husband. This was little Tommy, Tony's nephew. Chunk remembered him hanging around all the time, playing the Pac-Man game Vinnie kept in the club just for him, since no one else played it. He was a cute kid.

 _I have Tony's nephew_ , Chunk thought with a smile.

Maybe he wouldn't die after all...

* * *

"There's always that one fuckin' hero," Tony said, a handful of Lynn Loud's hair in his hand. Her face was crinkled in pain, tears flowing from her eyes. He yanked her up until their noses were touching. "You really thought you were gonna take us on?"

What happened was this: Jimmy was talking about the pastrami at Nino's back in Queens, and Tony turned to look at him, ready to rip his dumb goombah head off: The roast beef was much better than the pastrami. The moment his eyes were off her, Lynn Loud threw herself at him, driving her shoulder into his stomach and knocking him back. Because he wasn't a weak little fuck like Lynn's father, it took more than a thirteen-year-old girl to put him down: He punched her in the ear as hard as he could, and she toppled over. The boy and the short haired girl went to get up, but Jimmy came forward with his gun drawn. "You move, you're dead."

Lynn lie on the floor in a heap. While Tony recovered, Jimmy yanked her up and pushed her back onto the couch. Her head swayed drunkenly on her neck, her eyes rolling back in her head. The little girl in the pink dress and the one in the overalls were hugging each other and crying; the one with the glasses was as white as milk, her arms wrapped around herself. Frankie stood by the door, watching them, his stomach rolling. This was too fucking much.

Presently, Tony shoved Lynn back down and shook his head. "I oughta kill one of you for that. Just to...show Miss Superhero here that your actions have consequences." He scanned the Louds. "You know what? I think I will." He loomed over Lincoln, a smile on his face. "And it's gonna be you."

Lincoln's heart came to a sputtering stomach.

"No!" mom wailed.

"Please, don't kill Lincoln!" the little girl in the pink cried.

Lori wept into her hands.

"Too fuckin' late for that," Tony said, "thank your sister."

He raised his hands, but the back door opening stopped him. Tony looked up, his teeth bared. "I thought I told you to walk around and..." he trailed off when Chunk came into the room, his arm wrapped around Tommy's neck. The latter's face was bloody. Chunk held a gun to Tommy's head.

"Let 'em go," Chunk said. The British accent he'd perfected during his time in the Witness Protection Program was gone, replaced by his normal accent. It was much like Tony's. "Or I'm gonna blast his fuckin' head off."

Luna turned. "Chunk?"

"Well hole-ee shit," Tony said, "if it isn't Joey Asaro...oops, I mean Philip Grant." He raised the gun. "The fuckin' rat himself."

Chunk let out a deep breath. In 2005, when he was twenty-nine, he was pinched on the Jersey turnpike with 1 million dollars' worth of cocaine in his trunk. He'd been working with the Laraza Family (namely Bobby Laraza) for fifteen years at that point, and was well-known to the authorities. They made him a deal: Snitch and walk free, or keep quiet and spend the next fifty years in prison. Chunk chose to talk. His testimony put Bobby Laraza in prison for life; Chunk read in the papers someone stabbed him to death three years in.

"Let them go," Chunk repeated. "You want me? You can have me, and your fuckin' nephew too...if you let these people walk outta here."

Tony chuckled. "I can't do that, Joey. See, they...they know too much."

"They won't talk."

Tony laughed. "Yes they will. If a hardass like you can bitch out and sing, so will a bunch of soft suburban assholes like them." He cocked the gun. "You backed me into a corner. It'll kill my sister, but better than Mr. Laraza killing _me_."

"Uncle Tony!" Tommy cried. "What are you...?"

Tony pulled the trigger. Tommy cried out as three hollow tip cop killers entered his stomach and exited his back. Chunk yelled as they entered _his_ stomach. Luna screamed.

Tony started toward the fallen men, but another shot rang out, this one hitting him in the back of the head; he went stiff and pitched forward.

Luna turned just as the man by the door turned his gun on Jimmy and fired four more times: The big man twitched and spun as the bullets crashed into him, dancing a dying jig with wide eyes. He knocked into an end table and crashed to the floor, bringing it with him: Pictures and knick-knacks broke against his broad back.

"Chunk!" Luna screamed and threw herself at him. His face was white and blood trickled from his mouth.

"Call an ambulance!" dad cried as chaos consumed the Louds. Lincoln, Lori, Leni, Luan, and Lana all gathered around Chunk.

"Hold on!" Lincoln said. "Don't die!"

"Stay awake!" Luan begged when his eyes began to flutter closed.

He couched, blinked, and looked up at Luna, who was silently crying. "I...I'm not really British," he said and laughed.

"Just...relax," Luna said, taking his hand in hers. "Y-You're gonna be okay."

"Yeah," Chunk said, "I'll be fine." He took a deep breath, and it rattled in his throat as darkness stole over him.

He was right. He _did_ die that night.

* * *

Mario Laraza fell asleep in his chair that night while waiting to hear back from Tony. He didn't wake until the next morning when someone pounded on the front door. His heart raced and his stomach clenched. There's only one type of person who pounds on your door like that at 7am.

Sure enough, a team of FBI agents in blue windbreakers were waiting on his porch. By noon, he was sitting in a cell out on Riker's Island, his hands balled in his lap and his world in ruins around him. Frankie Carlone always struck him as a weak link, now he was out in Michigan singing his heart out, and the feds were _all_ ears.

But Joey Asaro was dead, and Bobby's death was avenged.

It was worth it, he decided.

* * *

Chunk was buried on a rainy Thursday afternoon. The only people there were the Louds and a couple of Chunk's coworkers from The Fuze Box.

After the service, as everyone else made their way back to the van, black umbrellas open over their heads, Luna dropped a single red rose onto his coffin, following it with a sole tear.

Family is not always blood, she reflected as she followed her parents and siblings to the van, it can also be other things. People come into our lives and become family, and now and forever more, Chunk was a part of _her_ family.


End file.
